THIRTY-ONE
There’s something about returning to your own apartment after a failed almost love story that feels suspiciously similar to revisiting a crime scene. Everything looks the same, but off.
I drag my dusty duffel bag across the scuffed wooden floor of my Clovelly apartment. My plants are drooping in the window. One of them might actually be dead. It’s unclear.
I kick off my boots in the entryway and peel off my linen shirt, which still carries the vague scent of red dirt and rejection.
Luke.
No. Not today. I refuse to be the woman who unravels in her own apartment over a farm boy.
I wander into the living room and collapse on the couch, limbs sprawled. I grab the remote and scroll through streaming apps with the dead-eyed detachment of a woman who’s definitely not losing it.
Eventually, I land on Yellowstone. If I’m going to suffer, I want to suffer in high definition. I want brooding ranchers and smouldering glances and horses that somehow understand the weight of emotional baggage.
I hit play.
It starts innocently enough – sweeping Montana landscapes, gravelly voices, everyone dressed as if they’re in a Wrangler ad for unresolved childhood trauma.
And then he shows up.
Rip.
Brooding. Built. Rough around the edges in a way that says, I’ll shoot someone for you, but I’ll also probably yell during therapy. A walking fantasy with murderous eyes and commitment issues.
All I can see is Luke.
I pause the screen as Rip looks dramatically into the distance, sensing my internal breakdown from the other side of the flat screen. I stare at him. He stares back.
‘Even fictional cowboys are triggering now,’ I mutter. I need something lighter. Something that won’t claw open my feelings like a feral possum in a wine bar.
Bridget Jones’s Diary it is.
I queue it up, press play, and feel the blessed relief of British accents and early 2000s sweaters wash over me.
Bridget stumbles through life with endearing awkwardness, emotional instability and wine-stained monologues.
She’s a hot mess with a heart. A cautionary tale wrapped in lip gloss and desperation.
We could be sisters.
The voiceover begins. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces.’
Bridget says it as if it’s a cosmic rule, but all I can think is, What part of my life is supposedly going okay?
Because if this is the ‘spectacularly to pieces’ portion, then what counts as the win?
The fact that the pill worked and my period arrived this morning? The fact that I haven’t watered my plants in a week and they’re staging a silent rebellion? The giant burrito I just ordered on Uber Eats? If there’s a part that’s going well, I’ve clearly missed the memo.
There’s a half-eaten packet of Tim Tams on the coffee table. I stare at them. They stare back. I blink first. The hot water bottle clutched to my stomach does little to ease the cramps. As if my uterus is protesting over lost potential.
My phone buzzes from the kitchen counter.
I shoot up way too fast for someone currently bleeding like they’re in a Shakespearean tragedy. My body moves before my brain does. For one brief, delusional second, I let myself hope – ridiculously, stupidly – that it’s him.
Luke.
Of course it’s not.
It’s Uber Eats. My burrito has arrived. I buzz the driver up, grab the brown paper bag from the door and collapse back onto the couch with the energy of a person who’s accepted defeat as a lifestyle.
On the screen, Bridget’s in full meltdown mode, singing ‘All by Myself ’ in pyjamas.
It feels too real. I unwrap the burrito and bite into it messily, sauce dripping down my hand like I’m in a sad music video.
My phone buzzes again. I freeze, burrito midway to my mouth.
Still not him.
This time it’s a follow-up notification from Uber Eats, asking me to rate my delivery experience. I resist the urge to type ‘spiritually unsatisfying but edible’.
I stare at my phone anyway. Even though Luke’s number isn’t even in it. But the silence he left behind is still here. Before, the quiet used to be comforting. I used to love coming home and having no one expect anything from me. Now it’s a form of punishment.
I shift on the couch, peel another layer of foil off the burrito and slouch deeper into the cushions.
I tell myself this is fine. This is self-care.
Watching Bridget Jones while eating a lukewarm burrito is healing, technically.
Solidarity with fictional women who cry in their kitchens. Therapy-adjacent.
I’m home.
But it’s not home anymore.
It feels like a stage set where I’m pretending to live. Same walls, same lighting, same knick-knacks on the shelves. But I’m different. I left something essential behind on that goddamn farm. Something I didn’t realise I needed until I walked away from it.
I should be doing something productive. Laundry. Journalling. Processing my abandonment issues.
Instead, I open Tinder.
If I can’t have closure, maybe I can have a guy named Connor who owns three dogs and ‘doesn’t take life too seriously’ but who definitely has a gym selfie and a boat pic in his profile. We all have our coping mechanisms.
I lean over the coffee table and grab my go-to nail polish.
Desert Rose. My nails are a mess, chipped from the farm and whatever emotional storm I dragged them through on the flight home.
I start swiping on Tinder as the first coat dries, holding my fingers awkwardly in the air so I don’t smudge them.
Swipe left.
Left.
Another left.
I swipe as if scrolling for divine intervention. Every bio is a tragedy.
Looking for my partner in crime. Immediate left.
Big fan of deep convos and margaritas. Maybe?
Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.
Then – John. Or maybe Ben. Something strong and monosyllabic.
He’s cute. Looks normal. He wouldn’t throw me off a balcony or send an unsolicited dick pick. He’s not doing a finger gun. His dog is wearing sunglasses in one photo. It’s … refreshing.
I pause. Not out of hope – don’t be absurd – but out of instinct.
I swipe right.
Then, I wait.
The nail polish isn’t even dry when the doorbell buzzes again.
Two minutes later, Abbey blows through my door like a walking hurricane.
I sent her an SOS text as soon as I landed back in Sydney.
She’s in designer activewear – leggings that haven’t been near a squat rack in a month and a cropped hoodie that probably costs more than my rent.
Her hair is in a bun that says I’ve had it, and her expression is the dictionary definition of judgemental affection.
‘You look like shit,’ she announces cheerfully, dropping a tote bag that clinks suspiciously on the coffee table.
‘Thanks,’ I deadpan. ‘My uterus is staging a coup.’
Abbey toes off her pristine white runners, grabs the nail polish from beside me, and flops onto the couch like she lives here. Which, to be fair, is the energy she brings into every room: part-time therapist, full-time squatter.
She starts sorting through the tote bag. Chips. Wine. Sour worms. Those chocolate bars that come in twelve individually wrapped pieces, purchased for portion control but about to be demolished in one sitting.
‘You brought the good stuff.’ I peel open a bag of salt and vinegar chips.
‘You sounded like someone who needed both sugar and sodium. And maybe a lobotomy.’
We fall into our usual rhythm: bad TV muted in the background, our feet tangled under the coffee table, the quiet comfort of being with someone who knows how you looked when pimples still covered your face.
Abbey waves the nail polish brush in my direction. ‘Alright. Start talking. What the hell happened?’
I don’t respond right away. I focus on blowing air gently over my barely dry thumbnail instead.
‘Jamie.’
I cave. ‘I left.’
‘Obviously.’
‘I shouldn’t have stayed there in the first place.’
She nods, as if that’s the least surprising thing I’ve ever said. ‘And?’
‘And it was never going to work. He lives on a farm. I live here. I had dirt under my fingernails for days.’
Abbey raises an eyebrow. ‘God forbid.’
‘It’s not just the farm. It’s everything. We’re different. We want different things.’
She goes quiet for a second, painting a careful stripe of colour across one of her nails. ‘Okay. Real talk?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘You need to stop chasing men and find yourself a hobby.’
I scoff, immediately defensive. ‘It’s not like that.’
Abbey doesn’t even bother to look up from her nails. ‘It’s always been like that. And at this rate, it’s going to be like that until you’re forty-two and dating someone who lists his mum as his emergency contact and who rubs your labia for two minutes, then asks if you came.’
I choke on a chip. ‘Jesus.’
She shrugs. ‘You know I’m right.’
I lean back against the couch, head hitting the cushion with a dull thud. ‘Maybe I’m destined to end up like my mum.’
Abbey pauses mid-stroke, eyes flicking to mine. ‘You will if you keep acting like her.’
‘Ouch,’ I say, wincing. ‘You’ve been hanging out with your therapist too much.’
She shrugs again. ‘You pay me in chocolate and gossip. And I’m telling you, you need to focus on something more productive.’
I laugh. ‘I don’t need a hobby. I need to get back on the horse.’
Abbey gestures at me with a half-eaten chip. ‘Literally or metaphorically?’
I break off a chunk of chocolate and pop it in my mouth. The sugar hits immediately. Temporary comfort. Duct tape for feelings. ‘It was stupid,’ I say after a beat. ‘Thinking Luke and I could work. My job’s here. My life is here. You’re here. Issy—’
Abbey cuts in, sharp but not unkind. ‘Issy is twenty-five years old. She’ll be fine.’
‘I’m just saying, I can’t abandon her. She’s practically raising two kids on her own.’
‘You’re not abandoning her. You’re using her as an excuse.’
I stare at Abbey. She stares right back.
I sigh, pressing the heel of my palm into my forehead. ‘It’s the Hayes curse. Doomed if we do, doomed if we don’t.’
Abbey clenches her jaw so hard I can practically hear her molars grinding. ‘The only curse you have is not knowing what the hell you actually want.’
Another direct hit.
I chew slowly, the chocolate suddenly dry in my mouth.
‘Maybe,’ I say, voice quieting without permission, ‘I need to date someone emotionally uncomplicated.’
Abbey doesn’t respond. Instead, she swipes to unlock my phone, browsing through the endless photos I took of Daisy while I was there.
The silence stretches between us until something shifts, slightly. The denial and avoidance I’ve kept buried rises to the surface. And I know I’m not fooling her.
I’m not even fooling myself.